Page 2 of The Rival (Looking to Score 2)
I’ve been there before and have fond memories of the place. One of those being the Fourth of July weekend last year when Saint hosted several of the guys for a bachelor weekend. We lit fireworks from the end of the dock. The rookie, Tate, shot a bottle rocket out of his ass crack. I smile inside as I recall the memory.
So, if enduring an excruciating meeting with my ex-slash-boss first is on the agenda, so be it.
“As you know, this game is changing, Alex. The fans are educated and discerning. Gone are the days of the good ol’ boys league filled with beer-swigging fans intolerant of anyone or anything that doesn’t look and think just like they do.”
I nod once, getting it. She’s totally right. Things have definitely changed in this business.
The woman seated before me is in large part one of the reasons for that change. Her coming in as a young female owner shook things up, and not in a good way at first. But now my teammate Lundquist has come out as gay and the racial profile of our team has gotten more colorful, both of which are very positive changes. But the fans are ultimately the ones we have to keep happy.
“Get to the point, Eden.”
She bristles at my tone. “My point is, there will be certain expectations of our team this year.”
I heave out a sigh. “And you’re saying . . . you need me to evolve.” There’s a question mark in my words.
At least, I hope that’s all she’s implying. Because the alternative is that there’s no room on the team for a player who spent much of last season nursing hangovers and chasing after puck bunnies. And for the record, I’m not proud of that.
“I need to be able to count on you this year,” Eden says, her expression as resolute as her tone.
Uncrossing my arms, I lean forward. “Hockey is my life, Eden. My passion. I’m not going to fuck up this season for us.”
She licks her lips, weighing my words. There is no us. But Eden’s smart enough to know I don’t mean us-us. I mean the team-us.
“I know,” she says, “but if there’s any part of you that wants to be traded . . .”
My eyebrows draw together. “I don’t. You think my meltdown was because of—”
“Me. Yes.”
“It wasn’t,” I say insistently.
“Okay.” Her voice is softer now.
“You don’t believe me?”
“I’m not sure what to believe, Alex.”
We exchange sad, uneasy expressions while tension fills the air around us.
When Eden and I first met, I was a bit of a player. I was excelling at college hockey, and between juggling that and a full load of college coursework, I had no plans to be anyone’s boyfriend.
But the woman seated before me quickly changed that. One look into her bright, inquisitive eyes made me wonder what it would be like to share more than just one night with her. My curiosity at that turned into a five-year relationship, and then later, a very public breakup.
Back in college, she was a good girl and her attention had been dizzying. I had a lot of female attention, but Eden’s felt different. She was brilliant and driven, and her father is the former governor of Massachusetts, for fuck’s sake. Her family is like royalty, and yet she only had eyes for me.
That’s obviously changed.
“We gonna talk about that rock on your finger?” I tip my chin toward the large diamond that’s impossible to miss.
Eden invited me to her upcoming engagement party—well, she invited the whole team, so her engagement wasn’t exactly a surprise. But it’s still a shock seeing her left finger with a ring on it when once upon a time, I assumed I’d be the one to put it there.
“Did you get our invitation?” she asks, her gaze meeting mine.
I nod. “Yes.”
It came in the mail last week, printed on fancy heavyweight cardstock. Seeing her name alongside Holt Rossi’s—the brooding outcast from our college days—sent a weird tingle down my spine. Them getting together last season was certainly unexpected.
I wasn’t sure I was going to their party. Especially considering the last time I was in the same room with Holt, things came to blows between us. It might be smarter to steer clear of any extracurriculars involving the happy couple. Then again, maybe facing it head-on is just the way to prove I’ve moved past our breakup.
The party is yet another topic it seems neither of us is willing to navigate right now as Eden shifts the subject back to hockey.
She folds her hands on the desk in front of her and meets my eyes. “The best thing for you would be to lay low this summer. No drunken bar brawls. No parties. And for God’s sake, don’t get arrested.”
The last time I had a brawl, I was one hundred percent sober. She knows this because the person I was fighting was her fiancé.
